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A Bouquet Of Reveries

Scottish Summer


If, with drip-filled dew,

Cities of wet bricks sleep,

Something presumably dreams

Yet very silently, but for plips

Down of rain when water is

Swelling where woodlice drown.


Pond plops in hope, drops

Kick cold fish to wandering,

Circles of sacred circles sacred,

Green all trees and grass in rain,

Wet holes of blue among black clouds

Spurt moments of sunlight, damp.


Rainy is the rain, blurred

ls the sky, morning or dusk,

Trees drip wet drops from their greenness,

Essence of green is their truth.




Kelvin Bridge


I do love Kelvin Bridge;

Not the bridge itself ye ken,

But the view in crisp bright sparkling night

Of star-light dark-blue spire-poked sky,

Or the sunny days of occasional summer

With the trees rustling by the rippling stream.

Aye, I like it. You would never know

You were in Glasgow.



To Stan Bell


In dedication to a real Poet,

Someone who feels the whole world

Around him; nature, humanity,

Full of warmth and great thoughts,

Always investigating enigmas, in love and perseverance.


One who uses Intellect,

And breathes Imagination

And Musicality: uniting ideas,

Beliefs, commitments, and dreams,

And observations into everything.




R.L.S. And J.B.


I wouldn‘t forget

In Robert Louis Stevenson‘s house

Near Paris,

Even if I did drink absinthe all the time,

The fantastic voyage with the pen;

Perhaps I would even fly

Like James Barrie‘s Peter Pan,

Miraculous are the hopes in dreams.




Paean To Pain


Such it is

If such spans

An inch

Or a note

Beyond misery,


Twisted of



Who misunderstood

Some agony


I squirt

Dead fountains

Dark empty


Flows in rain




       Tone Poem


Thus in the branches

Waving and heaving

The Alpine air breathes heavily

Delicious is the dawn in mountain sleep.


Wake up! Be among the elements and plants

The full flying animals flapping through the air

Insects hopping and chirping free

Dark clouds dispersing before the sun










I Love What I Barely See At Night



I love what I barely see at night,

And never notice in the day,

Just in the squeezed-between moments of dawn or dusk

O how the colours of purple flowers

Burst in ecstasy upon the lawn!

O how the rain-drops drift across

The misty hedges and green trees

Here in my garden in Glasgow!







O that crunch underfoot!

Dust and gravel moistened in the rain!

In a bright light sun-flowing morning,

When all is quiet as a dreaming stone!

Sleeking liquid down the bricks!

Cool sun light sparkling,

And I alone.



In The Land Of Counterpane



In the land of Counterpane,

In a child‘s secret garden,

Don‘t destroy a jumping cricket,

Nor a giant dragonfly.

They may be your other soul,

One from before and one for after —

Your timeless pin of eternity!







 My Hand



O the miserable hand of my summer‘s play

Hath nearly killed a little woodlouse.

Harmless little friend that never hurt

Me, but hath often offered me ideas.







Poetry In The Arboretum, Botanic Gardens, Glasgow



Like some ancient, sacred rite,

Down-bended before deep beauty,

Autumnal hues in an arboretum,

Mist hovering over the Kelvin.

Poetry carved into Kirklee Bridge,

“isionary immersion into nature.









My Heart Is Dark



My heart is dark

And in this darkness

All is blurred,

No light strains through

To hold more than an instant;

To grasp or scratch

At particles of light

Is pointless;

Dazzling is death,

Points of fading light

Give softness at last.








I Feel At War



I feel at war with holy pain,

Buffetted about in my own ignorance,

Love expanding, sometimes exploding,

Flashing its torch upon reality, sporadically,

Then retreating.









As Sappho



Ah, the beauty of the turning moon,

Ah, the beauty of the burning moon,

The stars are not so beautiful as the moon

When I see you; a slither moves up my spine,

As a snake, and steals my soul from me,

Then I burn.



Shake Off This Slumber



Shake off this slumber

Together, my love

Enter we an orchard

Apple-blossoms in perfume.


Enter we sweet dreams

On soft grass, lie down

Under skies of summer blue

Where skid puffs of cloud.












Emerging in a haze with painful ecstasy,

I raise my head slowly, in deep, drugged dream,

The world is bursting in sensuality,

Lovely girls dance in lush gardens

Of purple flowers and red berries,

Crimson fruits and giant leaves,

Wavering in soft perfumed currents,

Luscious scents and swooning moods

Of far-removed fantasy, deep from the soul

Of Love‘s existence, everywhere.
















    Flies With Their Wings



If some flies have beautiful wings

It must be because they love to fly

In dreamy adventures, in pitch-night air;

Or, perhaps, they never knew

Why they shimmered so wondrously,

For many millions of strange years,

Translucently before the sun, miraculously before the moon,

With noone there beholding them.

Their wings were blue, green, transparent,

Beating faster than the oscillations

Of thought, yet not so fast

As electrons zooming within their cells,

Nor mitochondria producing proteins,

Nor the light-waves wafting out

From their glorious flying dances.

Could they know why they flew?

Do they know, today, their wonder?

When they grace a night-time garden,

Or a pond in brilliancy

Of sunlight, streaked upon the water,

When reflections ripple like dew,

Or some imaginary fairies play

Deftly upon the banks, or blow

Kisses to all their invisible friends

That hover around the shafts of moon-

Light, radiating in musical turns,

Like dancing miniature ladies, dreaming:

Flickering souls that touch the Dawn?


Tim Cloudsley nació Cambridge, Inglaterra. Es sociologo, escritor y poeta. Trabajó como profesor en la Escuela de Idiomas, de la Universidad Industrial de Santander, Bucaramanga en el ámbito de estudios culturales y literatura.

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